


The Wisest Course of Action

by storyranger



Series: A Boy and His (Big) Dog [1]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Brotherhood, Comfort, Identity Issues, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Slow Build, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8503648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyranger/pseuds/storyranger
Summary: Dean Ambrose has trust issues. And interpersonal issues. And identity issues.Dean has issues.[If you’re looking for smut, you’ve come to the wrong fic.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This is as adherent to the canon as it can be when the canon is a clusterfuck of a tv show with no breaks between seasons. If it happened in the ring, it’s canon. Content warning for internalized homophobia. Spoilers for anything before November 6th 2016.

Dean Ambrose had trust issues. It wasn’t a secret. Growing up the way he did, it would have been a huge surprise if he _hadn’t_. But somehow, against all odds, he’d managed to become part of a team. A team that was unstoppable. No matter how rocky a beginning they’d had, Seth had kept them together, and he loved Seth for it. Because of Seth, he had two brothers.

Up until the moment Seth took a steel chair to Roman’s back.

There was no air left to knock out of him when the chair hit him; the realization that Seth had turned on him had already gutted Dean. It still hurt like hell, though, and it didn’t stop. Hit after hit, cold steel and shattered trust beating into him relentlessly. Watching them brutalize Roman was almost worse. He was the Lunatic Fringe, the one who never stayed down, and here he was, sprawled on the mat unable to help his brother as that bastard Orton stripped him and delivered a savage RKO. He couldn’t do a damn thing about it right now, but he planned in detail every little thing he was going to do to Seth when he got the use of his limbs back.

Roman had dragged him back to their room, raided the hotel’s ice machine to rig up an ice bath, forcing Dean into it first. When Dean emerged 10 minutes later, shivering but numbed, Roman had tossed all of Seth’s stuff into the hall in a wild heap. Dean realised why Roman had made him wash first: if he’d gotten his hands on Seth’s gear before Roman had, there would probably be a small bonfire on their balcony right now. As it was, he was too tired and shaky to leave their room. He briefly considered the bed he’d been sharing with Seth, but thinking about sleeping in it made his skin crawl and he collapsed into Roman’s bed instead. He could feel bruises forming on his back; his chest was already purple. It was a miracle he hadn’t cracked a rib. Dean mustered the effort to flip on the sports channel before curling himself into a ball under the covers. When Roman emerged from the bathroom ages later, he didn’t bat an eye at Dean’s choice of sleeping location. He tossed his own bag onto the vacated bed and Dean watched as he pulled on sweatpants and a shirt; Roman’s back looked like a Rorschach test. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, looking across at Dean with tired eyes.

“How you feeling?” he asked.

“Like fucking shit. You?”

“It hurts.” Roman took a breath, then continued, “Dean, I need to know. Are you still with me?”

“Roman… I trusted Seth. I never trusted nobody like I trusted Seth, and he fucked us.” Dean’s voice was thick and bitter.

“I know. But Dean, I promise, I’m never going to turn on you like that. And if you wanna quit, if you want out, I get it.”

“I don’t even have a high school diploma, Big Dog. I’m not quitting. I ain’t got nowhere to go.”

“And I’m telling you, I have your back, if you want me to. I trust you.”

“You got some balls, trusting a crazy-ass lunatic like me.”

“Grapefruits. Finding boxers is a nightmare.”

In spite of everything he’d been through that night, Dean couldn’t help howling with laughter at the horribly lame joke. Roman grinned for a second, and then extended his hand across the gap between the beds, his face becoming serious once more.

“Brothers. You and me.”

Dean swung himself slowly to a sitting position, his mind churning furiously. How many times had he and Roman Reigns been at each other’s throats, usually because of his own jerkish behaviour, and yet there was Roman, practically pleading for Dean’s trust.

He jerked out his hand and shook Roman’s, and Roman dragged him up into a hug. This was too much for Dean. He let out a strangled sob, collapsing against the taller man and causing them both to land with a heavy thud on the bed. Dean was curled into Roman’s lap, shedding wave after wave of angry tears with Roman muttering over him and running a hand through his hair.

Eventually, Dean sat up, wiped his face sheepishly, and collapsed back into “his” bed. He’d have regretted his display of emotion, if he’d had time to do so before tumbling into unconsciousness.

 

***

 

Watching Seth run his mouth about being a business partner made Dean’s stomach churn, and having Roman to step in and do some of the talking was probably the only thing that kept him from screaming obscenities on-air. It wasn’t a shock when management called them in to assign them solo angles; the Shield was meant to be a trio, and it felt weird to try to keep it alive. Dean went after Seth mercilessly, and Roman was trying to make a run at the biggest title. He was still rooming with Roman most nights; he was a little too prickly to have many friends on the roster, and management was always loath to make any changes to their booking schemes that could affect the total bill. (Which was why it was always a crapshoot whether a “double” room would mean two single beds or one double.) And so far, Roman was keeping his promise about having Dean’s back.

Roman hadn’t _quite_ expected him to need it watched so badly.

He’d taken to hanging around the monitors backstage during Dean’s matches, so he’d be prepared for how much treatment he’d need to provide afterwards. (Dean grumbled constantly that he didn’t need Roman to look after him, but he never outright refused the offered ice, tape, and pills.) He never intervened; this feud may have started with the destruction of The Shield, but it was between Dean and Seth now, and he knew how much Dean hated other people trying to finish his fights for him. It was tough to watch sometimes. Those two could get savage in a way he still wasn’t fully used to even after years in the industry. But if he couldn’t help Dean in the ring, he’d sure as hell witness him.

After the disaster of Summer Slam, Roman certainly wasn’t expecting things to go well for Dean. He still wasn’t prepared for actually happened. When Dean’s head went through the cinderblocks, Roman felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He watched with growing horror as Dean stayed down, and the medics rushed out to start checking him. When they put him in the neck brace Roman almost screamed. He continued watching, dumbfounded, as Dean was rolled backstage on a stretcher. Suddenly he heard shouting, and furniture crashing. The former sounded like Dean’s voice. Roman raced towards the direction of the ruckus; whatever was happening, it wasn’t good.

He reached the scene and surveyed the damage. An empty, overturned stretcher. Stunned medical personnel frantically rushing in and out of the hall. Dr. Amann standing, enraged, next to the abandoned neck brace, which was lying on the floor like a challenge.

“He ran away. The idiot just ran away. A massive head injury and suspected spinal trauma, and _he just gets up and runs away_.” Dr. Amann was rarely this pissed, and if Roman wasn’t terrified already he certainly was now.

“Did you see where he went, Roman?”

“No, sir.”

“Look, if you see him, you tell him from me, if he sets foot in the ring in the next three months he’ll be lucky if I ever medically clear him to tie his shoelaces again, let alone compete.”

“Yessir.”

Dr. Amann sighed. Roman felt sorry for the doctor; this wasn’t his fault.

“If I find him, I’ll make sure he doesn’t try anything stupid, Doc.”

“You’re a good kid, Roman.” Dr. Amann strode off, leaving Roman alone in the hall. He slowly bent over and picked up the brace. Couldn’t hurt to bring it along, just in case. He got in the rental and began to drive lazily around the city, his mind buzzing.

Dean had disappeared before. This wasn’t new. He could be back in a few hours, or a few days. Roman never asked where he went, and Dean never offered the information. Roman figured after something this big he wouldn’t see Dean for at least a week.

Which was why he actually _jumped_ when he walked through the door of their hotel room and saw Dean lying in a crumpled heap on one of the beds.

“Fucking _hell_ , Dean!”

“Shhhhhhhhhhh,” groaned Dean softly.

“What the fuck were you thinking, running away like that?”

“Roman, could you fucking quiet down a notch?”

“I was worried sick about you! Dr. Amann is on a war path. You’re lucky to be able to walk after that hit. This is insane, even for you. You need to go to the hospital!”

Dean turned his head and puked in response.

“Shit.” Roman realised belatedly that Dean was almost guaranteed to be concussed, and loud noises were probably excruciating right now. He turned the overhead light off and flicked on the table lamp furthest from Dean, then knelt next to him, carefully avoiding the vomit.

“I’m sorry, _uce_. I got carried away. You just scared us, is all.” He gently turned Dean’s head and lifted up his eyelids, checking to make sure Dean’s pupils were still equal-sized.

Dean puked again, and Roman wasn’t fast enough to avoid getting sprayed.

“Okay, I probably deserved that.”

“Don’t like hospitals.”

“What?”

“Don’t. Like. Hospitals,” Dean repeated, louder.

“Doc says you could have a spinal injury, Dean. I think you should get it checked out.”

“Please,” whispered Dean, shaking a little. Roman couldn’t bring himself to argue the point further.

“Okay, _uce_. You win. No hospital for now. But you’re wearing the neck brace, and we’ve gotta clean you up before you can sleep.”

Dean didn’t say anything, but the way he gripped Roman’s arm said everything. He stripped the dirty sheet off Dean’s bed and tossed it in the bathtub, then found a clean towel and did his best to wipe up the mess from the floor. The empty icebucket was put next to Dean’s head, just in case, and he gently lifted him into a sitting position so he could put the brace back on. He set an alarm for two hours, figuring he should probably keep waking Dean up to check he hadn’t gotten worse.

After the first three checks had showed no deterioration, Roman let Dean sleep the rest of the night and allowed himself to drift off, too. When he awoke, it was almost afternoon and Dean was gone. There was a note in Dean’s erratic handwriting stuck to the bathroom mirror.

 

**_Going home for a while. Thanks for the cleanup job. I’ll stay out of trouble._ **

 

Management took to putting Roman in the cheapest single they could get after Dean disappeared; the rest of the older guys had established arrangements they were comfortable with, and he flat-out refused to room with the obnoxiously energetic new recruits. He was lonely, but at least it was quiet and no one was fighting him for the shower.

Dean showed up again three weeks later, knocking on Roman’s hotel room door in the middle of the night, looking like nothing had even happened. Tonight’s room had a single bed with barely enough space around the edges for the night stand and television, let alone another person to sleep on the floor, but after Roman stopped bear-hugging him Dean just flopped onto the bed like he belonged there. It would be cramped, but Roman was too relieved Dean was here and whole to protest.

Later, as they lay side by side in the dark, Dean’s elbow jabbing Roman’s rib uncomfortably, Roman finally let out the breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding.

 

***

 

“Fucking hell.” Night of Champions was two days away, and Roman was curled on the bed, grimacing. Dean was sprawled on the floor at the foot of the bed, watching a football game and occasionally hurling popcorn at the screen. (He knew it bugged Roman when he made a mess of their rooms, but sometimes he just needed to be annoying.)

“What’s wrong, Big Dog? Nervous Seth’s going to try and smash _your_ face in, too?” asked Dean with a chuckle. For a man who was still technically listed as “AWOL” with management, he’d spent his week stowing away in Roman’s room being remarkably flippant about the whole affair.

Roman only grunted in response. Dean twisted around, abruptly concerned.

“Roman? Talk to me, brother.” Roman was clutching his stomach now, his face looking more and more pained.

“Hernia. Hurts like a bitch. Think you need to drive me to the hospital, _uce_ ,” he spat through gritted teeth. _This_ was serious. Roman hated Dean driving; the only time Roman ever referred to Dean as “crazy” was when he was behind the wheel. Roman asking to go to the hospital this close to a pay-per-view, and risk not being cleared to compete? An emergency if there ever was one. Dean had his shoes and jacket on, keys in hand, and had tossed a hoodie to Roman in the space of a single commercial.

The drive consisted of Roman trying not to whimper and mostly succeeding. He didn’t even comment on Dean’s speeding. The triage nurses barely made him wait before rushing him into surgery, leaving Dean alone and jittery in the eerily-lit waiting room. At some point he must have dozed off, because hours later he awoke to a nurse standing over him, gently shaking his arm. A few minutes later he was in a private room, a coffee having inexplicably appeared in his hand. Roman lay still, his black tattoo contrasting harshly with the stark white sheets. Dean pulled up a chair and sat down, shaking slightly. He idly drummed his fingers on the back of his neck. Roman stirred and looked over at Dean, confused.

“They made you wait?”

“I slept through most of it, same as you, brotha.”

“Dean, they should have sent you home. I’m sorry.” Roman was clearly upset, despite the sedatives coursing through his body.

“No, no, it’s okay. I wanted to wait.”

“Oh.” Roman relaxed again, slowly. He reached out his hand, and Dean took it without thinking and squeezed gently.

A nurse wandered in to check things, and she kept up an incessant stream of chatter as she worked. Dean ignored most of it, until, “your boyfriend here was real nervous, eh Mr. Reigns?”

Dean dropped Roman’s hand like he’d been burned.

“We’re not… I’m not… no,” he said, roughly. The nurse gave him a severe look, then turned back to Roman and continued chattering to him softly. Whatever she was saying, it clearly amused Roman. He gave her a slow smile and remained smiling until she left them alone again.

“I’m not making it to Night of Champions, am I?” he slurred ruefully.

Dean could only snicker in response.

“Beat his ass for me.”

“Roman, you’re off your head. They’re not going to rebook the match this late. I’m not even cleared to compete yet.”

“I don’t mean a match.”

“Oh.” A grin began to creep across Dean’s face as he realized what Roman had in mind.

“Elise, the guard with the undercut. If you slip her $20 and an apple fritter she’ll turn a blind eye.”

“How’d you figure that one out?”

“She has a soft spot for The Shield. How do you think I crashed that bullshit funeral Seth tried to host after he stomped you?”

To be honest, Dean hadn’t thought about it at all.

“I’ll get him real good for you, brother.”

“I know. Now do me a favour and go home, _uce_. You need to sleep.”

“You sure?” Dean tried to sound sincere, but truthfully his tolerance for the smell of antiseptic and endless corridors of yellowed cinderblock walls had been surpassed hours ago.

“Go.”

 

As security tied his hands and dragged him out of the arena the next night, the only thing Dean could think was that even if Dr. Amann made good on that threat to never clear him again, it was worth it for the look on Seth’s stupid face when he’d flipped him out of that ring.

 

***

 

Roman spent 2015 pretending the boos that slowly, steadily began to eclipse the cheers each night didn’t bother him. Dean spent it brawling with anyone and anything, and sleeping with a different woman every city.

He wasn’t stupid about it; there would be no Baby Deanos showing up to claim half his paycheque in alimony. He definitely wasn’t gentlemanly about it, either. He never gave them his number, and if he somehow came into possession of theirs he never, ever called them. He never felt any need to; the emotions just weren’t there. Unsatisfying sex for an unsatisfying wrestler. He figured he deserved it.

 

***

 

Suddenly it was Wrestlemania again, and Roman finally had a title. Dean was happy for him, and that alone lessened the sting of the crowd’s consistently unfriendly welcome. He tried his best to keep a “zero fucks given” attitude in the ring, but when it was just the two of him Roman had stopped pretending he wasn’t pissed off by it all.

Dean was just pissed Rollins was back so soon. And it was definitely causing him to have some outbursts of blind rage in the ring, which Roman had caught the brunt of more then once.

“Slimy fucker has all the luck,” he’d ironically lamented to Roman backstage before Money in the Bank. Privately, Roman was relieved Seth was okay; he may still be angry over how things ended, but he couldn’t find it in himself to wish an injury like that on anyone, even a rat like Rollins. Dean had planned to win the ladder match. He planned to hold on to that shiny briefcase for a long, long time. But when had any of Dean’s plans actually gone as expected? He could live with Roman losing the title, but Rollins would take it home over Dean’s dead body.

Becoming the WWE World Heavyweight Champion was just icing on the cake.

 

Dean worried it might be awkward to share the bed now that he’d cashed in for Roman’s title, but when he arrived back at the room Roman was waiting with a beer for Dean in one hand and a bottle of whisky for himself in the other.

_Looks like we’re celebrating after all._

When Dean awoke, he was wrapped securely in 265 pounds of warm Samoan. Realizing he was pinned until such time as Roman saw fit to wake up or roll over, he relaxed into the embrace. For someone as fucked up as Dean, a sense of security was an elusive, fleeting beast; he welcomed the rare calm that washed over him as he lay there next to his best friend.

Then he felt himself growing hard, and suddenly nothing felt secure at all. Dean began frantically shaking himself free from Roman, who opened his eyes sleepily, confused by Dean’s sudden burst of action. His eyes landed on Dean’s boxers and he smirked.

“I thought we were past the point of being bashful about a little morning wood,” he said, still smirking.

Dean grabbed a pillow and covered himself, his face flushing a deep red.

“Awww, he’s cute when he gets flustered.”

“I’m not a fucking queer!” Dean blurted out.

Roman woke up immediately. His voice became the voice you’d use to talk a man off a ledge: gentle, but laced with sharp authority.

“No one’s accusing you of anything, Dean.”

Dean realized how incriminating his protests sounded right now, but he couldn’t stop talking. It was like his mouth had bypassed his brain and was moving on its own, and he just had to watch.

“I’m _not_ a _fucking queer_.”

“You got a problem with queer people?” The gentleness had evaporated, leaving only hard edges behind. Roman stood up, crossing his arms and glaring at Dean.

“No. Never. But I’m not gay.”

Roman’s tone softened. “ _Uce_ , that’s an awful lot of denial for something no one said you were.”

“Are you saying I’m in denial?!” Dean was right up in Roman’s face now, teeth bared, breathing heavily. Roman considered for a moment, then grabbed him by both shoulders and touched his forehead to the shorter man’s.

“I think you need to _calm down_.” They stood like that for a long moment, neither one knowing how to react to the sharp turn the conversation had taken. Finally Dean pulled away, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his back to Roman. His breathing was still heavy.

“I’ve always believed it’s no one’s business but your own who you fuck, as long as you ask them first. I’m not saying I think you’re in denial, Dean. But I think you might have some stuff going on in that skull of yours that you need to work out.”

“What if I don’t want to work it out?”

“Then we forget this conversation happened.”

Dean inhaled sharply, then turned around with a manic grin pasted on his face. He jumped up and grabbed the car keys.

“Wanna grab breakfast? I’m driving.”

“Lunatic.” Roman grabbed his wallet and followed him out, rolling his eyes the whole time.

 

Roman thought that was the end of it. He was sure things were fine that night when he and Seth were sent out to congratulate Dean on his win. Then Shane threw him in a grudge match that devolved into a complete shitshow and ended in Dean landing pair of Dirty Deeds that shook the room. Things were clearly not fine. Roman had hitched a ride with Sami back to the hotel, leaving his rental in the carpark so Dean wouldn’t be stranded. He needed to calm down from the shock of getting Dirty Deeds’d before he confronted Dean about this. One of them needed to keep their cool, and it probably wasn’t going to be Dean.

When he finally went back to their room, Dean was eating Cheetos and watching NFL fumble reels. Something about how normal this situation was irked Roman, and his plan to keep the conversation civil dissolved.

“So what was that about?” he demanded.

“I’ll fight anyone, at any time. This isn’t new.” Dean drawled lazily, not even looking up from the television. Roman snapped.

“Dean, I GET IT. You’re a big tough straight guy. You’re serious about keeping that fancy piece of hardware. Believe me, I get how good it feels to walk into a room with that on your shoulder. So I’m trying not to take it personal when you take a cheap shot in the ring here and there. But I gotta ask you, Dean, do you _really_ think that driving away your best friend just to prove your fucking masculinity is the wisest course of action here?”

Dean’s eyes remained fixed on the television, but the way his jaw twitched signaled that he was only pretending not to hear Roman. Roman let out a frustrated sigh, and stalked to the bathroom to take a very, very long shower. There was no point in talking to Dean when he got like this.

In the morning it was Dean’s turn to wake up in an empty room and find a note stuck to the bathroom mirror.

 

**_Suspended. Don’t get yourself killed while I’m gone._ **

****

***

 

Dean had spent a lot of his life deliberately not thinking. It was easier, most times, then trying to parse out the mess going on in his head. He liked to believe he’d gotten pretty good at it. Lately, though, he seemed to have lost his touch. For instance, right now he didn’t want to think about Roman, and the way he’d felt when Roman’s arms were around him. He didn’t want to think about how soft Roman’s hair was, or his stupid lazy grin.

Unfortunately, since Roman had gotten suspended he’d spent a lot of time thinking about these things.

He was being forced to confront, kicking and screaming, the fact that no matter how many women he slept with, none of them could make him feel the way a fist bump from Seth had. Back before the steel chair.

How had it taken him this long to figure it out?

He’d fucking _loved_ Seth. And not just as a brother. He’d had a full-blown crush on that motherfucker, and he’d let himself get taken advantage of time and time again, putting his body on the line for The Architect’s designs without getting anything in return. He’d made a goddamn fool of himself. No wonder Roman had been so fucking fussy over him; he’d probably known about this the whole time. Had Seth realized? Was that why Seth fucked him over?

No. That was too irrational, even for Dean. Seth was too cold to let trivial things like attachments affect his planning process. If Seth had realized anything, it wouldn’t have changed things except to give those “business relationship” quips a bit more bite.

But Roman. Roman knew, didn’t he? That’s why he’d pressed the subject. Hell, maybe Roman was even… bi? Pan? What were the right words these days, anyways? Dean had spent so long convinced he was straight and these things were irrelevant to him that he’d never thought to consider what Roman ID’d as. It would make sense why Roman got so enraged when he thought Dean was slamming queer people if he was queer himself. Fuck, he didn’t know a damn thing about who Roman dated. He didn’t think it was any of his business.

_Doesn’t matter. None of this matters. You’re too fucked in the head. No point dragging Roman down into the pit with you._

Even after Roman returned, the brand split meant separate schedules in separate cities. He hadn’t talked to Roman outside of the ring since the night Roman tried to call him on his bullshit, and his choices at Battleground almost guaranteed their friendship was over. During the day, things were okay. Good, even. He was starting to actually hang out with the other guys on the Blue team, and some of them were even interesting. His schedule was nuts, but busy had always kept the demons at bay. Working was good for him, and he was a good worker.

At night, when he stumbled into his empty hotel room and collapsed into bed, he wondered whether being the champ was really worth driving Roman away.

 

***

 

Dean expected a lot of things from AJ Styles at Backlash. He expected pain, and he expected sass, and he was prepared to fight harder then he’d ever had to before to keep the title belt around his waist.

He wasn’t prepared for a kick in the balls.

(To be fair, what man ever is?)

After a loss like that, Dean didn’t want to do anything except curl up in a dark corner and die, but he had to get himself home first. He dragged himself backstage to the locker room and out to the car park. Somewhere along the way someone had pressed a bag of ice into his hand. He was wandering around, searching fruitlessly for his car, when he spotted a familiar figure in the shadows.

“Hey.” Dean’s voice was tight with nerves.

“Hey. Figured you might want someone else to do the driving.”

“Were you-”

“Watching? Yeah. Elise let me into the nosebleeds.”

Dean tossed Roman the keys and climbed into the passenger seat, slamming the door roughly. Roman winced at the _thud!_ but said nothing. Dean propped his feet up on the dash and stuck the bag of ice on his crotch gingerly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Roman asked quietly, starting the car and beginning to back out of the parking space. Dean shook his head quickly, trying not to tear up.

“Okay. You’re gonna have to give me directions though. I’m supposed to be in Baltimore, remember?”

Dean was silent the entire ride except for the occasional grunt of “left” or “right”.  He didn’t say anything as they walked across the lobby, or rode up the elevator, or as he unlocked the door and held it open for Roman. Roman walked in, accepting the silent invitation. Dean sank down on the edge of the bed, still clutching the ice against his groin. It was a full ten minutes more before he finally spoke.

“I worked _so fucking hard_ for that goddamn title. I gave everything I had. I almost gave up _you_. And for what? So that AJ could kick me in the balls and take it from me?” He sounded utterly broken, and Roman’s heart ached for him. He sat down next to Dean and began rubbing slow, firm circles into his back.

“I know, brother. I know. ”

“I’m so fucking tired.”

Roman put his arm around him, squeezing hard. Dean twisted and buried his face into Roman’s chest.

“Bastard’s going to regret the day he decided to mess with you, _uce_ ,” whispered Roman. Something was soaking into the front of his shirt, but he couldn’t tell whether it was sweat or tears. He wrapped his other arm around Dean and rested his chin on the top of his head. Dean was shaking violently, but Roman’s grip was firm.

“Shhhhhhhhh. It’s okay, brother. I’ve got you.”

Dean responded by putting his arms around Roman’s waist and hugging him like Roman was the only thing tethering him to this planet. They stayed like that for a while, Dean’s breathing slowly evening as the tension bled out of him. Finally, he gently shrugged Roman off. His eyes were red, but otherwise he seemed like himself. The bag of ice had melted completely. Roman moved to stand up, but Dean’s hand snaked out and caught his wrist.

“Stay. Please.”

Roman laced his fingers with Dean’s and squeezed. “I’m not leaving, Dean. Not until you want me to. I’m just getting you more ice.”

“I don’t want you to leave. Not tonight.”

“Okay.” Roman looked down at their intertwined hands. He was surprised Dean hadn’t pulled away already; Dean generally had a lower tolerance for physical contact. Instead, Dean placed his other hand roughly over Roman’s, effectively trapping it.

“You know how I said I didn’t want to work things out?”

“Yeah, I remember. That was your call to make.”

“I didn’t want to work things out, but when you left… I didn’t have a choice.”

Roman bit his lip to keep from asking the obvious question.

“I… oh, fuck. I don’t… you know how well me and words get along.” Dean shrugged, absently fiddling with Roman’s hand. He looked up and finally met Roman’s gaze. Roman was straining not to interrupt, determined to let Dean take his time. Their eyes remained locked, and whether for a minute or an hour neither would remember.

“Oh, _fuck it_ ,” breathed Dean, as he sprang forward and kissed Roman harder then he’d kissed anyone before. He was fast and hungry, and Roman responded by slowing it down, teasing him. When they finally broke apart, they were both panting for air.

“Took you long enough,” grunted Roman, pushing Dean down against the mattress and setting to work on kissing every inch of his scrawny frame. He didn’t get far before Dean groaned in pain, sitting up and pulling off his shirt. His neck was bruised, and there was a patchwork of fresh welts on his chest. Roman rolled to lie next to him, trailing his fingers gently across the angry marks. Dean lay on his back, eyes closed, with a stupidly wide grin on his face. He was still bone-tired, but his mind was quiet. Eventually, he rolled onto his side, pulling Roman’s arm around him, creating a cocoon for himself as he nestled against Roman. He drifted off, feeling safer than he ever had in his life.

 

The next morning, Roman rolled over to see Dean staring at him intently. He smiled dreamily up at him.

“Morning,” he said, reaching for Dean’s hand as if to check this was all still real. Meanwhile, Dean cut straight to his point.

“If I ever let the title get between us again, promise that you’ll punch my fucking lights out.”

“Dean!”

“I’m serious. As long as we’re both still in this business, it’s a possibility.”

“Dean, I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“It happened once, didn’t it?”

Roman couldn’t argue with that.

“Okay. We do things your way.”

“Roman?”

“Yeah, _uce_?”

“Don’t you have a show tonight?”

Roman grumbled and reached for his phone to check the time. He sighed when he saw the number blinking back at him.

“Shit. I have to go.”

“Or, I could drive, and you’d still have time for a shower.”

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” asked Roman, standing up and pulling Dean into the bathroom after him.

 

An hour later, as Dean weaved through interstate the traffic with Roman sitting white-knuckled (but still grinning) in the passenger seat, the radio blasting something loud and fast, he realised that for the first time in years, he didn’t feel crazy at all.


End file.
